


There're no such things as miracles.

by Cat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat221b/pseuds/Cat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So... I still can't think of a decent work title. But this is my view of John and his emotions after Reichenbach Fall, with mentions of five stages of grief. So there's mentions of death. Be warned!</p>
            </blockquote>





	There're no such things as miracles.

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this is my second try of fanfiction. Please tell me if something is terribly wrong and sorry about mistakes. Thank you for reading :)

<p>He is a doctor. So he knows what are the most commonly referred 5 stages of grief. Lately he has also been reminded that he knows how to understand how it is to feel someone's pulse, or lack of it. How it is to touch the body what was alive and talking just few seconds ago and what in the next moment is slowly starting to get cold.

To be honest, he thinks that maybe the cyclist who knocked him to the ground made him the favour. Because sometimes he believes that he lived through all 5 stages, while being on the ground, but he's a doctor. He knows that it's not true.

Also that doesn't explain why he lives them through again.

When he first arrived home, after explaining Lestrade what happened as quickly as possible, refusing any medical help they wanted to give him against the shock, he just sat in the chair, pretending that none of that happened. Ms. Hudson had been informed, so she had hurried to hug John, with tears in her eyes, but man had just shrugged. He didn't want that. He didn't want to acknowledge that. Not yet. So he sat. And he tried not to move, just staring in front of him, because he honestly thought that if he moved, he'd do something he'd regret. And he didn't understand really, because he'd seen people die before. Good people. His friends. Why was this time different?

Question answered before even asked.

Because this time it was suicide. His friend killed himself. In front of him. For god's sake, he heard the crack when human head collided with solid ground. He h e a r d that. He has never felt so helpless, even when he got shot and was carried away from the field. How do you forget seeing your best friend fly through the air for multiple storeys? Because that feeling is unimaginable, no one can ever understand that. You just watch, you can't do anything. You yell, you know that it won't help, but you still do it. There's no force on the earth that could help you then. And then comes silence. Nothing.

That's why John just sits. He feels burning, he feels the hole in his chest, helplessness, he feels like he's in the different world. He's genuinely afraid to move, because that pain is not even remotely comparable of being shot. Being shot was painful, yes, but afterwards came morphine and painkillers and numbness. Not this time though. This time it's just burning inside him and nothing he can think of can stifle that.

He waits. For those five stages to come. But all he can do is watch in front of himself, out of the window and breathe. Slowly. In and out. He doesn't cry, he just doesn't believe anything. He saw it with his own eyes, but he doesn't believe.

Aha, here it is. First stage came. Denial.

He thinks that he already lived through the third stage, bargaining. It was in his mind, when he ran towards his friends body. He promised everything then, just to discover that Sherlock made another miracle. That somehow his friend is invincible to falling down from great heights. That miracle never happened though.

Anger came probably when he talked to Lestrade. That's the main reason he punched the man. And he doesn't even feel guilty at the moment. He's not sure what he feels, to be honest. But he remembers satisfaction when his fist collided with Greg's jaw. Or when he saw the hurt and disbelief on Donovan's face after John yelled at her. He will apologize some day, he knows that. John Watson is a nice man, always polite. He will apologize. But today is not that day.

Depression has always been here, John just usually had Sherlock to chase it away. He doesn't have to wait for that stage, it's always creeping around him. Ever since the war. So the fifth stage is tricky. And today is also not the day to deal with that. Today is for pretending that today never happened.

John's gaze slips over different things. Violin he doesn't hear ever again. Sofa where dressing gown is carelessly thrown over the backrest. Books which now seem so pointless. Without even looking, he knows that on kitchen table sits microscope, abandoned probably in the middle of some experiment. And he's almost certain that if he opened the fridge, he would find some kind of body parts in there. Sherlock's laptop lies on the table, but that's unimportant, because no one would ever guess the password for that. Or maybe Mycroft would. Everything is still here, waiting to be used, except the owner of those things will never come back. Lean fingers will never touch violin strings, or turn another page, finish another experiment or type another word.

Worst thing is that John has no idea what happened. He doesn't know what to believe. He wants to think that it's another plan of his friend, because if it wasn't, if it was just the suicide, then John knows he will never stop blaming himself. There are always signs. And how is that possible that he didn't see those signs? It doesn't matter that he knows how remarkably good liar Sherlock is. Or even that he knows how significantly good Sherlock is at hiding his emotions. Guilt still remains.

Because he watched his friend step into nothing. And he didn't even had a chance. He couldn't change his mind, because he wasn't there. He ran off. And some of his last words to Sherlock before that are still ringing in his ears... _You machine!_

If only John would have observed. He knew that Sherlock would do anything for ms. Hudson, he'd seen him almost kill a man for laying a finger on her. And it was so different reaction now, when he got the obviously fake call that woman had been shot. He should have known. Sherlock knew. He always knew everything. And John was so stupid.

He presses his fists to his eyes. To stop. Just stop. Anything. Everything. He felt they were wet and understood only then that there were tears streaming from his eyes. He didn't know when it started. John Watson don't cry. He had seen his friends die. And he didn't cry then. Why was it different now?

He goes to his therapist after few days. Just to do something else than staring into nothing. She suggests to go to Sherlock's grave and say all the things John didn't have the chance to say. So he finds himself in front of black headstone.

_One more miracle Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this._

Nothing.  
  
There's no such things as miracles.

Fire still burns.


End file.
